


saw your face in the moon

by irritable



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, an au of canon but like very much not canon at all. like at all ill explain, like.. its just fluff n stupid shit bro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-27 08:29:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30120000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irritable/pseuds/irritable
Summary: “Have you killed before?” Widow asks her, curled up against Sombra’s back.Sombra pauses the video she was watching and peeks over her shoulder. “You say the sweetest things to me when we’re alone together.”
Relationships: Sombra | Olivia Colomar/Widowmaker | Amélie Lacroix
Comments: 8
Kudos: 23





	saw your face in the moon

**Author's Note:**

> abt this universe:  
> this was written because of one (1) joke i wanted to make hehe so imagine canon w all the same tech but less war. talon is some shady org that moonlights as a door & window installation company. overwatch is a security firm, it doesn't matter at all. sombra is still sombra except she doesn't join a terrorist group, widow is also still widow except this isn't from her pov so don't expect much background. in my head she's still on talons leash, but not anywhere near how short it is in canon, i imagine that throughout the story she's working on going from brainwashed property to a mostly regular degular employee w like.. a severance package
> 
> title from butterflies by fiji blue
> 
> lmk if i should bump this to mature, nothing too explicit tho. sombra makes an attempt to respect boundaries<3 i respect her ONLY!

Sombra squats between two roof vents, squinting at a screen as her drone flies closer to the building opposite. She sticks her tongue to her upper lip in concentration and, with great care, draws a wobbly oval on the screen. The laser attached to the drone begins to eke out the same shape on the tinted glass. 

This is when Widow shoots over the ledge in front of Sombra and nearly gives her a heart attack.

It won’t be for a while before Sombra knows Widow as Widow. For now, she is Amélie. 

Sombra jerks up and stumbles, flailing her arms out for balance. Her screen winks out of existence, and the drone stills, hovering by the glass. Instinctively, her form flickers, about to go invisible, but then Amélie reaches out and grabs the front of Sombra’s shirt before she falls on her ass. Sombra can’t really go anywhere now.

For a second, Amélie holds Sombra still, tipped backwards precariously. Amélie blinks. Sombra blinks back. She hauls Sombra up and releases her.

Sombra checks that her translocator is up. Double checks. 

“Thanks,” she says, finally. 

“Who are you?” 

Sombra raises her eyebrows, checks the stranger out, and promptly decides to stay for a bit. She doesn’t seem to be in immediate danger just yet, and she’s curious. Amélie is definitely not normal. 

It’s the way she looks—you know, all tall and skinny, dressed in shapeless coveralls, and there’s that eerie, blank gaze of hers. Her hair’s up in a neat ponytail that makes Sombra’s scalp want to wince in sympathy, but the whole severe look has Sombra’s brain going a little stupid. Her eyebrows are done, too, so her frown looks exceptionally sharp. 

Sombra likes sharp women. 

“I’m whoever you want me to be,” she says, stilted, after a pregnant pause. 

Amélie stares and doesn't make a single move. Honestly, it begins to creep Sombra out, and she wonders if Amélie is even a human. Until her eyebrows tug down like she’s confused and doesn’t know how to react. That's a look Sombra is used to—usually occurs when she materializes in front of someone to ruin their lives. Or if you’re one of her friends and she’s decided to be an asshole today and pull some pranks or something. 

Amélie’s face reverts back to her resting bitch face. “You are not supposed to be here.” It’s not accusatory or questioning—a statement of fact. 

The neutrality piques Sombra’s interest, raises her hackles. “Sure, I am.”

“Who are you?” Amélie asks again. This time, she takes a step forward, and Sombra has to repress her fight-or-flight response.

She puts on her best smile and waves a hand. An array of screens pops up in front of her. “Sombra,” she says, “Cybersecurity consultant.”

If her finger brushes up against one and a directive is sent off that has her drone flying back, well, all the better.

Sombra doesn’t offer more information, a habit ingrained into her. Better to have the other person draw their conclusions from what limited tidbits Sombra drops, shows her a bit of their hand. A win-win.

“Are _you_ supposed to be here?” Sombra challenges. Keeps the grin on. “I won’t tell, cross my heart.”

Anyway, it’s not that huge a stretch. She _is_ in cybersecurity. Specifically, she’s in the business of compromising it, but you know, it’s not like Amélie isn’t about to lie. Fair’s fair. 

“Yes,” comes the brusque reply.

A pink dot blinks on Sombra’s screen—the drone snaps a picture of Amélie from an off-angle, so Sombra can run it through facial recognition later.

Amélie’s eyes dart to the dot on the screen and back, and her head cocks a bit to the side in reaction, but she remains impassive. The screens minimize with a wave of Sombra’s hand. She tenses up and gives Amélie another once over, curiosity mounting. 

Amélie must interpret the glance as a question. She attempts to explain: “Yes. I am a… is there a special name for it in English?” She frowns in earnest now, and this single human expression is enough to make Sombra relax a little. “I… am a window maker— a fixer. And also, for doors.”

Amélie’s fists clench, and she tilts her face up to the sky as if dying inside a little bit. 

Sombra pushes her hair out of her face, trying not to smirk, and offers: “…like a handyman?” 

English isn’t Sombra’s first language either, so it’s not like she knows if there’s a name for that specialty. Still, handyman seems like an obvious umbrella term. 

“Handyman.” Amélie clears her throat, a little sheepish. “Yes.” 

Sombra’s already decided she’ll finish the job another day, from another building, so she can sort of justify it when she puffs up a little. She ignores the dust and leans up against a vent to display her best angle. Look, Amélie’s really pretty and really interesting, and she’s a liar, but she isn’t actively trying to kill Sombra, which is different from most women Sombra encounters while working, so it sort of makes sense when she says: “What’s your name, handyman? You're not going to make me beg, are you?”

For a moment, Amélie looks taken aback. Looks a little dumbfounded. Then, her grappling hook scrapes off the floor and retracts all the way with a loud click that seems to jolt her into movement. 

“Amélie,” she says, abrupt.

Sombra's grin widens. Amélie doesn’t look like the type to have a high tolerance for bullshit, but she tilts her head at Sombra, and her frown eases into the beginning of fascination. Sombra can work with that.

“Why are you here?”

“Testing firewalls,” Sombra says, practised. “Just needed access to the antennas.” 

Most people believe her when she says tech stuff because of her visible cybernetics, even if it makes no sense. Perks of being a cyborg. Still, Amélie’s eyes narrow at her suspiciously.

Sombra puts on a congenial look, raising her hands up. “Almost done.”

“I need to work,” says Amélie after a beat. 

“Go ahead.” Sombra steps aside amiably. She makes a point out of keeping an eye on Amélie.

A handyman who uses a grappling hook and fixes hotel windows in the dark of night? Please. 

To her credit, Amélie does have a toolbelt with conventional-looking handyman equipment attached to it. 

She gives Sombra another unreadable look before shrugging and brushing by. 

Sombra turns the transparency of her screens down a little so she can stare at Amélie while she works. She’s an excellent multitasker, though, so she also starts compiling the facial recognition search results onto one monitor for later.

Amélie crouches at the roof entrance and takes a small can of WD-40 out of a pouch, spraying the hinges. Sombra did struggle with that door when she was sneaking up. 

Maybe Amélie’s actually a handyman. 

Amélie stands up and looks down at the brick Sombra used to prop the door. Sombra whips her finger up on the transparency slider, screen going opaque, and pretends to be busy. 

When she sneaks another look, Amélie is testing the door. It creaks a bit, but otherwise opens and shuts smoothly. Satisfied, Amélie returns the can to her belt and pops another pouch open so she can take out a cigarette and a lighter. When it’s lit, she leans against the wall and makes eye contact with Sombra. 

Her solid gold gaze dips down to look pointedly at Sombra’s all-black tactical getup. The brick hasn’t been moved.

Handyman or not, that’s clearly not all she is.

Sombra sends her drone back to base and approaches the so-called handyman. Amélie tracks her movement.

“Done?” Amélie’s playing at nonchalant and Sombra identifies the persistent itchy sensation as the knowledge that Amélie observes much more than she lets on; that Sombra herself is the subject of that keen eye. But Amélie’s poorly disguised look of curiosity flashes through Sombra’s mind, and she doesn’t mind it so much.

Sombra smiles and settles next to Amélie, so their arms touch. “Yep. You?”

“Yes.” 

“Can I bum a cigarette?” She’s not a habitual smoker and rarely a social one, but she needs an excuse to stay. 

“They’re expensive,” Amélie says, turning to look at Sombra just as she exhales. The wind blows most of it away from Sombra’s face and into Amélie’s, but she barely flinches. Despite her assholery, she slips the cigarette from out between her lips and offers it to Sombra.

Sombra receives it graciously and takes a drag, very cognizant of how Amélie watches her mouth the entire time.

When she blows it out in the space between them, she thinks she sees the hint of a smile on Amélie’s face through the haze. Amélie looks into Sombra’s eyes now. Sombra returns the stare. 

Usually, Sombra enters conversations, confident she holds more knowledge than the other party. Otherwise, she would have gotten more by now. Amélie barely gives her a micro expression. All hard surfaces, seemingly hollow with how passive she is, but Sombra knows better. 

Sombra wants to see what’s underneath. She takes another drag and hands it back. She asks: “Do you want to get coffee with me?”

Amélie puts the smoke out just to light another one, and it’s hard to tell with how dim it is, but Sombra thinks she’s definitely pleased. “Meet me in the lobby tomorrow at 8.”

That’s way too early for her. “How about 1?” 

Amélie frowns but says, “Fine,” anyway. She kicks the brick out of the way and opens the door for Sombra, a clear dismissal. 

Sombra’s okay with that. She can’t wait to get back and dig into Amélie’s files. “See you ‘round.”

She slips through the door, and Amélie shuts it behind her. 

* * *

A brief summary of Amélie’s life awaits her when she gets back. 

Amélie Lacroix, as it turns out, is a bona fide handyman. Sombra reads the next line and sucks in a breath. At 33, Amélie is already a widow. She reads one newspaper clipping about Mr Lacroix’s mysterious murder before she stops and considers whether or not she should go on this date. 

There are a lot of other women out there who don’t have this kind of baggage and would go home with Sombra. But Sombra doesn’t like leaving stones unturned, and anyway, she doesn’t have a right to judge when it comes to fucked up histories, so she reads a few more articles before turning back to the biography. 

Amélie is employed by a company named Talon. Why they named a door and window company “Talon” escapes her. 

The website is plain, and the about page is boring. There’s a bunch of pictures of houses and only one that contains a person in it: some guy in a beanie carrying a massive window frame on his own. Much to her annoyance, his back is turned, so that’s a dead end. 

She finds satellite pictures of its office on Google Maps. It looks like a regular grey building.

Already, she knows there’s more to the enterprise than what meets the eye.

* * *

She shows up at 1 and finds herself sitting across from Amélie at a corner table in the nearest café, relaxing more and more as the date progresses. Besides, Sombra has a translocator on her, and three backups stashed around the city.

Amélie orders for her since she spoke the language. And fine, so Sombra thinks French is a little sexy. Whatever, sue her. At first, Amélie is reserved, but Sombra’s an expert at talking no matter the circumstance, and she easily carries the conversation. Anyway, Amélie appears content to listen to her babble about whatever she wants. After a while, she warms up a little, which really means that she begins to provide snide comments when Sombra gossips about people. 

Amélie seems a little out of her depth when she says something bitchy, and Sombra actually laughs. 

It’s kind of cute, actually. Sombra grins into her espresso. When she looks up, she’s just in time to catch Amélie’s gaze skittering away, down to the milky brown of her own cup. She was so confident yesterday. Sombra understands—things are different in the daylight.

Still, Sombra’s smug about it. “Take a picture, Ames, it’ll—”

“Shut up,” Amélie huffs, but her cheeks flush, and she raises her head again, openly ogling Sombra like she’s trying to prove something. Sombra just smiles serenely. 

All the while, Sombra congratulates herself on her own foresight. She had booked a hotel room last night, on the off chance that they would both be interested in a daytime hookup. Signs point to yes. 

She has an apartment, of course. She rented it for her current contract, but all her sensitive tech is there, and she has some rather hilarious albeit compromising pictures of a certain Prime Minister tacked up on the fridge. 

But Amélie beats her to the punch. She finishes her coffee and stands, towers really, over Sombra. Confident again, she says, “Come home with me.”

Sombra tries to look unruffled when she takes Amélie’s hand. “Sure. Yeah.” 

As she follows Amélie out, she mulls over all the ways this could go wrong—from murder and mayhem to standard concerns for when you’re putting out on the first date. But then Amélie takes out a set of keys to a sexy looking motorcycle, and Sombra has never been surer of a decision in her life. 

She’s brought to a literal castle, and she’s about to say something about it, about how a handyman can afford this, or something crass about her apparent wealth when Amélie sticks her hand up Sombra’s shirt and presses her up against a door. She doesn’t feel like talking anymore. 

* * *

Panting and tangled up in sheets with a ridiculous thread count, Sombra traces the lines of the spiderweb tattooed to Amélie’s skin. She feels utterly boneless.

Suddenly, Amélie grabs blindly for her hand and squeezes. 

Sombra looks over. 

“You’re strange,” Amélie tells her.

“You make windows. You live in a castle,” Sombra points out. 

Amélie hums. “Old money,” she says and, without pause, asks, “Why are you here?”

Sombra raises her eyebrows, wonders if she’s being kicked out. But Amélie doesn’t act like she’s brushing Sombra off, so she says, “You invited me.”

For a moment, Amélie just stares in silence. A gust of wind pushes through the open balcony doors. It’s dark now and cold. Sombra didn’t realize how much time had passed. She thinks about pulling the blanket higher up to her chin, hesitating because she’s not sure if she’s staying the night. 

But then Amélie sits up and stoops over Sombra, and they’re kissing again. Sombra forgets about the time and the temperature, and forgets about how she blew hundreds of Euros on a hotel room she’s never going to step foot in. 

* * *

There’s a portrait in the hallway of Amélie the bride, and her husband. Ex-husband. Is it an ex-husband if he died during the marriage? 

Sombra stands in just a t-shirt and panties, holding a plate of scrambled eggs, and gawks at it. It all feels vaguely sacrilegious. 

Amélie comes through the kitchen door with her own plate and looks from a guilty Sombra to the portrait several times before she sighs and begins walking away. Sombra grimaces and follows. They enter a room with a massive TV in it which Amélie turns on. 

The doors to the balcony are open here too, and Sombra feels goosebumps rise on her legs. When they’re both seated, Sombra dumps her legs into Amélie’s lap, and Amélie puts a hand on her calf. Then, she makes a face and pulls the decorative throw blanket off the back of the couch, draping it over Sombra. 

Sombra tries not to feel too much about it. Sombra fails. 

They don’t talk—Sombra because she feels awkward for being caught looking at the portrait and Amélie because she’s Amélie. After scarfing the eggs down, she puts the plate down on the side table and pretends to listen to the droning news anchor. 

When she can’t stand it anymore, she nudges Amélie with her leg. “I don’t have to ask.”

Partly because she already knows. Partly because she genuinely likes Amélie. 

Amélie spears a bit of egg with her fork and considers Sombra with a serious gaze. 

“About anything,” Sombra clarifies. 

Amélie sets aside her plate and wraps cold fingers around Sombra’s ankle. “Come here.”

Sombra does, straddling Amélie’s lap. The blanket slips to the floor.

* * *

They exchange numbers. Next week, days after Sombra’s finished her business in France, she invites Amélie to her apartment. 

The blackmail pictures are gone, and she tidied the place up a bit. Still, Amélie looks fascinated by Sombra’s wide variety of mostly illegal gadgets. Sombra takes her hand and brings her to her bedroom, and Amélie doesn’t say anything about it. 

* * *

She stays in France. Her kind of work can mostly be done from anywhere. When it can’t, she calls it a business trip if Amélie asks. Not that she does.

Amélie sometimes just disappears. Only ever for a few days. She doesn’t extend Sombra the same courtesy, doesn’t claim a business trip, just drops off the face of the Earth and shows up again like nothing has changed. 

Sombra finds offshore accounts connected to Talon.

* * *

Amélie is weird. Sombra attributes it to a combination of her Frenchness and her upper-class upbringing. 

It’s just that she has way too many different kinds of cheeses in her kitchen, and she eats them with fine wine, like, on a semi-regular basis.

Sombra watches her lounge on her settee, pluck a grape off her platter, and idly spin a wine glass. Sombra watches and then asks her about the genealogy of her ponies. Amélie ignores her.

Generally, Amélie’s very unsentimental, but then, a week later, Sombra finds a pack of cheese crackers in the cupboard. Amélie shifts a bit, like she’s embarrassed, and says, “So you can have wine and cheese with me.”

And Sombra stops making fun of her for the cheese and acknowledges the fact that she should probably think about where this relationship is going. 

* * *

When Amélie’s preoccupied and leaves Sombra to her own devices, she snoops. The house is enormous, dusty, and a bit rundown, honestly. She keeps jiggling the stones to see if she can find hidey-holes—succeeds in pulling three out. She doesn’t really have any use for them, so she shoves the stones back into the wall and hopes Amélie doesn’t notice. 

The only room locked is Amélie’s study which Sombra can’t get into because that’s where Amélie is when she’s busy.

She’s given the wi-fi password. Only once does she try to read Amélie’s work emails, but they’re heavily encrypted, and she feels uncomfortable doing it so close to Amélie, so she doesn’t make a habit out of it. 

Over time, she notices the house getting fixed up. Windows and doors are replaced, and nicer furniture is put in. Sombra wonders if Amélie does it all herself. 

Her question is answered on a Sunday afternoon, midway through a lazy make-out session on Amélie’s couch. The doorbell rings, and Sombra kisses down Amélie’s jaw, sucks at her neck. She lays it on thick, whispering the filthiest things she can think of into Amélie’s throat. 

Much to Sombra's chagrin, it’s to no avail. 

“Désolé, ma chère,” Amélie murmurs and pulls away. She extracts her long limbs out of Sombra’s grasp and turns off the documentary playing in the background. Something about the evolution of phones produced by the now-defunct Apple Inc.

Sombra scowls and sags into the cushions. “No te perdono.”

Amélie combs a hand through Sombra’s ruffled hair and then tips Sombra’s chin up with a finger. She smiles down at Sombra’s bereaved expression. “I’ll be back.”

“Whatever.”

But the second Amélie leaves the room, Sombra’s creeping to the door and listening in. Muffled conversation, some stuff about skylight installation, and then footsteps. Sombra settles back into the cushions, dragging the blanket up her legs, and pretends to be bored about reading her emails. 

The cause of this extreme inconvenience appears in the doorway. She looks over the edge of her holovid. He’s a big guy, dressed in all black save for the grey beanie that Sombra immediately recognizes. He stops, looking like a fish out of water, at the sight of Sombra. 

“Um,” he says and then turns to Amélie. 

“This is Sombra.” Amélie nods to her. “Gabriel.” And that’s all she says, undecipherable as always.

Sombra hates her. “Hi, Gabe.”

Gabe still looks a bit constipated, but he seems to remember how to behave regularly and puts on a convincing enough smile. “I’m just here to take measurements for the renovation. I’ll get outta your hair soon.”

An American. Sombra will look him up later. “Take your time.”

She had said it to be polite, but he actually does; he and Amélie spend hours somewhere in the house.

Sombra writes down his name and appearance for when she gets back home and has access to her own secure network. In the meantime, she gets cosy on the couch. 

When she gets bored with waiting, she packs up her stuff and wanders towards the noise. 

Through the glass doors, she spots Amélie leaning on a wall in the courtyard, arms crossed. They seem to be in the middle of a heated discussion. She tries to listen in again, but Gabe spots her. Instantly, Amélie cranes her head to look. Gabe shakes his head at her, says one last thing that Sombra can’t make out, and turns around with his measuring tape. 

Amélie opens the door. 

“I’m heading out, Spider.”

“I can call a car,” she offers. 

Sombra’s a little butt-hurt about being ditched for home improvement, so she coolly pushes her hair out of her face and says, “Don’t bother. One’s outside already.”

Amélie blinks, knuckles paling around the knob. “I’ll text you.” It comes out a little unsure, almost a question, and Sombra can’t believe she’s going to forgive Amélie just like that. 

Amélie never says anything with such apparent hesitation. She’s usually so stubborn and certain when she talks to people—not that Sombra has a broad frame of reference since she hasn’t actually spent much time with Amélie outside of their respective homes. But she has taken work calls while Sombra’s half asleep next to her, and she’s really short with baristas. 

Sombra sighs and cracks a smile. “Okay.”

* * *

Sombra thinks they’re dating. It’s hard to tell when exactly in the past few months the just hooking up thing became something else. And it’s definitely something else because one time, Sombra had asked, “You’re not doing this with anyone else, right?” and Amélie had looked at her like she was dumb and, okay, Sombra was admittedly knuckle deep inside her at the time, but that had to count for something.

Come on, she met Gabe—meeting friends and family is a rite of passage and neither of them has any family left. Plus, she goes over to Amélie’s big ass mansion at least once a fortnight to hang out. And “hanging out” actually involves doing stuff that isn’t sex (but, okay, yeah, she _does_ always spend the night, and that usually involves sex). They text semi-frequently too—more accurately, she’s the person Sombra texts the most relative to everyone else in her life. Amélie is a lousy texter, but Sombra can tell she tries. That definitely counts for something.

They’ve also been on a few more dates. Once, Amélie took her to some fancy restaurant and pulled Sombra’s chair out for her and then paid for it all at the end. That date was only average—the food wasn’t worth the price, but Amélie looked beautiful, and they spent the whole-time being cunts about everyone else in the joint. So, yeah. 

They’re dating, right? Right. 

Right?

Amélie hasn’t texted. 

Sombra’s not usually the clingy type. She’s still not. It’s just that she’s pretty sure Amélie isn’t normal. She’s pretty sure Amélie knows Sombra isn’t normal. She’s pretty sure Amélie’s not-normal is worse than Sombra’s not-normal. Not that she minds. Not about the moral questions that arise from Amélie’s not-normalness, at least. Maybe she minds about the fact that Amélie might not be okay. 

But Sombra’s not clingy, so she stops herself from cyberstalking her girlfriend(?) and focuses on cracking Overwatch’s firewall. 

* * *

Sombra’s in the middle of being toxic in a competitive video game and getting bored of it when her second monitor displays a contract notification, marked yellow to indicate that she should take it if she has nothing better to do. 

She lifts her hand off her mouse, so she can sip out of her Coke can and watches with mild interest as her character gets 3 headshots in a row. She can almost hear the angry typing before the all-caps messages start popping up in the match chat. So uncreative. 

With a roll of her eyes, she alt+f4s out and wheels around to look at the contract. 

It’s a standard blackmail contract—some elite American politician pissed off at a rival or something—god, she’s bored to tears, almost wants to rejoin the game. Doesn’t, because potential real-life consequences definitely gets her going more than trying to beat her own record for the shortest time getting banned in a video game. Also, she gets paid. Always a good incentive. 

The target really is a run-of-the-mill politician—white man, nuclear family, Harvard Law graduate. She wrinkles her nose and gets to work. 

But, after a few hours of digging through his digital footprint, she finds out he isn’t an idiot. He’s buried the worst of it. He’s hired actually competent PR and security teams which, in this day and age, obviously come with tight cybersecurity. Killjoys, the lot of them. 

She’s found blackmail material, of course. Still, her employer set some standards for the material she’s supposed to find, and a college hazing scandal doesn’t quite hit the mark.

Sombra glares at her screen, realizing she probably has to do some more hands-on work. She really hates the States, but a job’s a job. Sighing, she books a flight to JFK for next week and then opens her and Amélie’s DMs.

She looks at Amélie’s profile picture: Sombra’s MS Paint rendition of a cartoon spider with a fat ass. Doesn’t even crack a smile at it. 

She sighs again and sends: _out of town, text when u can._

* * *

Sombra finishes the job and returns to France. Goes back to mindlessly trolling forums, and ruining online games for people, and hacking databases for fun. Amélie texts two days later. It just says, “ _come over_ ,” and Sombra considers being petty about it, but she kind of misses Amélie and something’s definitely up, so she hails the first taxi at the curb. 

The château is dark and ominous when she pulls up. 

The driver looks at her like she doesn’t belong. She scowls at him, and when he drives away, she makes sure his radio is permanently stuck on the teen bops station he’d skipped earlier. 

She rings the bell. 

Her phone blips, and a text from Spider reads: _come in._

Sombra tries the door. It’s locked. She frowns and sends: _how_.

Spider: _Sombra._

The door has a fingerprint scanner instead of a simple mechanical lock. Sombra bites her lip, overrides it, and enters the foyer. The lack of sound and movement sets Sombra’s teeth on edge. She feels like she might fall into the darkness.

She knows Amélie cares about her. Amélie’s shown it in her own way. But Sombra didn’t get to where she is, from where she was, by being stupid and sentimental; she goes back out and leaves her translocator in a bush. 

She tries the living room first and finds it empty. The balcony doors are closed. It feels even more suffocating. 

Amélie texts again: _bedroom._

Sombra’s already making her way there. 

A soft light emits from the bottom of the door. Sombra enters and sees the bedside lamp on. 

Amélie lies flat on the bed, her legs dangling off Sombra’s side of it. She doesn’t look up, just releases her phone and brings that same hand up to palm her face. 

“Hey,” Sombra says, going for gentle even though she feels off-kilter. 

The door shuts quietly behind her. Amélie finally sits up, leaning a hand on her sheets, and gives her antique dresser a thousand-yard stare. 

“Hey,” Sombra says again, this time with more force. 

Amélie’s head lolls around, and she looks over, gaze unfocused. She looks like she did when they first met, distant and unnerving. 

“You don’t have to tell me.”

A tuneless hum. Then: “I was shot.” 

Sombra immediately crosses over to her and touches her face. “Where?”

Amélie undoes her robe, and then her hands fall away. Sombra has to open it herself, find the patch of gauze on her shoulder herself. Her fingers hover over the gauze.

“Why?”

“The American,” Amélie says. “New York.”

Sombra stiffens, puts her hands in her pockets, and Amélie smiles. 

“Hm.” Amélie traces the corner of her bandage. “I killed him.”

Her pupils are blown. Pits of black ringed by a dense, heavy yellow. The smooth surface of a brick of gold. Sombra wants to dig her fingers into Amélie, pry her apart. Adrenalin burns through her veins. Anticipation crawls through after it, lagging just behind.

After a long moment, Sombra shakes her head and says, “Poor guy. I just extorted him.” 

Amélie reaches up and grips loosely at Sombra’s wrist. “Did you know?”

The full extent of Amélie’s involvement in Talon? Honestly, no. “Yes.”

Talon had tight security. Sombra was still working on the firewall before she’d left for New York. But she knows that it’s a transnational organization and that it was involved in a few coups that were preceded by assassinations. So, Sombra had an inkling. 

“I was going to kill you.”

Sombra feels faintly nauseous. “When?”

Amélie shrugs. “On the roof. You scared me.”

“Oh. That’s not too bad.”

“And the day after,” Amélie says, but her hand tightens, and Sombra waits. She looks uncomfortable now—the first real expression Sombra has seen on her tonight. It isn’t a bad expression, necessarily. Amélie always emotes like she’s trying to pass a kidney stone. “But I liked you. You made me laugh.”

Sombra takes her hand out and slips it into Amélie’s. “That’s not too bad.”

“My employers don’t like you.”

“That’s…” Sombra thinks about it and winces. “Kind of bad.”

Amélie’s lips quirk up a bit, and her eyes crinkle in the corners. She leans back, pulling Sombra closer, between her legs. “That’s okay. I have friends in high places.”

“Girl after my own heart,” Sombra says as she climbs into Amélie’s lap. 

Amélie holds onto her hips, her thumb rubbing into Sombra’s skin. “Do you want to ask about my husband?”

Sombra slings her arms over Amélie’s shoulders and doesn’t break eye contact. “I think I know already.”

“Widowmaker,” she murmurs. “My name.”

Sombra makes a sound of acknowledgement. 

Widow looks at her expectantly. 

Sombra suppresses a giggle. “Just Sombra, babe. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“Cybersecurity consultant, my ass,” Widow mutters, hiding her face in Sombra’s neck. 

“I’d love to consult your ass,” Sombra says, just to ruin the mood. She’s never done well when it got too heavy with her ex-girlfriends.

Widow’s face scrunches up. “I can still kill you.”

“You can try.”

They kiss softly, contained in Widow’s bedroom. 

* * *

Sombra wakes up alone, which isn’t new since Widow’s a get up at dawn to do yoga type of girl. 

There’s coffee in the pot and bread and butter out on the table. Sombra makes two slices of toast and pours coffee into one of Widow’s artisan mugs. 

She’s sitting at the island, munching on breakfast as she skims a newsfeed on auto-scroll, when Widow comes in, decked out like a soccer mom. Sombra sighs at the sight of her and makes a grabby motion with her hand. 

Widow comes over and accepts a buttery kiss. 

“You didn’t kill me,” Sombra says conversationally.

Widow nods and then puts her translocator on the table. “I found one of your… thingies outside.” 

“Neat, thanks.” Sombra pops the last bit of toast into her mouth and swivels to fully face Widow. “Are we dating now?”

Widow’s eyebrows dip. “Yes?” She puts a hand on her hip, one propped on the table, and looks slightly pissed. “Were we not?”

“We are,” Sombra rushes to reassure her, grabbing at her hand. “We were. I don’t know. You didn’t ask.”

“You asked me out.” Widow still looks unhappy. “We went on dates.”

“Exactly. It was your turn to make the next move.”

Widow takes her seriously and frowns harder. “I wasn’t aware we were taking turns.”

Sombra feels a funny little warmth in her chest. She presses her other hand over her heart in case something’s actually wrong, not that she would be able to feel it, just on instinct. No warning signs pop up, though. 

She smiles up at her girlfriend. “Well, now you know.”

* * *

Gabe comes over again. This time she follows his wispy form around while he carries a literal door in his arms. 

He stops. She does too. 

He turns to look at her. 

She smiles. 

“What?”

Her smile widens. “Do you actually know how to fix doors?”

He looks insulted and glares. “Yes. We’re good at what we do.”

Sombra’s about to make fun of him when it occurs to her and she has to take a moment and: “Widowmaker… the window maker. Oh my fucking god.” She wheezes. “Are you war maker, the door maker? You make doors and wars? What else rhymes with—whore? Are you a whore maker, Gabe?”

He sighs and keeps walking.

* * *

When she finds out his callsign is Reaper and the big boss of the nefarious top-secret organization called Talon is called Doomfist, she loses her mind. 

* * *

She takes Widow out on more dates.

They go to the beach, and that’s the last time Sombra ever does that with Widow because she spends the whole time sunbathing and reading a book while Sombra’s left alone in the water. Widow even makes her take her flippers off when they get back to the château. Sombra doesn’t get why; she can just avoid the carpets and the floors are stone. But even if she spends 6 days out of the week at Widow’s, it’s still not her house, so whatever. At least, she carries Sombra from the car into the house, so she doesn’t have to step on the gravel barefoot. Sombra is very okay with that.

Sombra introduces Widow to Baptiste, one of her friends she’d met on a job a few years back. It goes poorly. As it turns out, Baptiste was a former employee of Talon and has since developed a moral code. But then she says, “Dude, you’re friends with _me_.” And he has to give her that one. 

She, on the other hand, becomes great friends with Gabe. Not that he’d ever admit it, grouchy dad that he is.

She likes him. He gives her fashion advice and, also, general life advice. Where would she be if he hadn’t helped her with Widow’s anniversary gift? 

(The macaroni frame picture of her and Widow at the Eiffel Tower is on Widow’s nightstand. The flowers and chocolates he insisted Sombra buy her were long gone: wilted and finished within 20 minutes of it leaving Sombra’s hands, respectively.)

In return, she listens to him bitch about his problems and lets him give her shit for her split-toe shoes.

It’s really just a beautiful friendship. 

* * *

Eventually, Sombra manages to get Widow to break routine and stay in bed on Sunday mornings only. The rule is that she’s not allowed to leave until at least 9 am. Sombra had thought that implied she’s also not allowed to wake Sombra up before that time, but Widow has not seemed to pick that up. 

She wakes up to Gabe’s voice. 

When that registers, she opens her bleary eyes and sees the sharp lines of Widow’s profile. After she admires it for a few seconds, her eyes slide down, and she spots the holovid in her lap. 

Sombra closes her eyes again and concentrates on dozing off again. 

“Just give her a massage or something, I don’t know,” Gabe says. 

Sombra’s brain tunes back in, and she gives up on sleep altogether. Squinting, she sits up. Widow makes eye contact with her, expressionless. 

“That’s romantic, right?” he continues. 

Widow makes a sound of discontent. “I am not going for romance.” Sombra rolls her eyes but lets Widow pull her into her side anyway. “I am looking for solutions.”

Gabe groans. “I’m not a medical expert, Lacroix. I fix doors and kill people.”

That’s kind of indisputable. Widow doesn’t say anything, and there’s a lull in the conversation. Sombra pulls up a screen so she can start sifting through the newsfeeds—

“You know why her back hurts, right?” Gabe speaks up suddenly. “It’s because she’s on the computer too much.”

“Computers, plural,” Widow corrects absentmindedly.

Sombra scowls and huffs, “Get a life, Gabe.” But then she stops, blinking at her screen, and adjusts her posture. She scowls harder.

* * *

Their first project together is not how Widow pictures it. Sombra knows because Widow is definitely the type that thinks her work is badass—not that it isn’t, but Sombra’s not looking for that particular skill set right now. Also, it’s not even a real job.

“Babe, guess what?” she says, almost giddy. 

There’s a muffle, and then Widow’s monotone comes over the phone. “Yes. What?”

“I bought a house.”

A long silence. “What,” Widow starts slowly and tightly, “is wrong with the château?”

Sombra grins. She’s been on a business trip. She really misses Widow. “Oh, nothing.”

“Sombra.”

“What if I told you it’s a nest egg?” 

Two quick beeps sound—an indication that Widow wants to switch to video call. Sombra accepts it and sees her beautiful, unimpressed girlfriend in 4k. 

She sighs dreamily and closes her eyes, pressing the back of her hand to her forehead. “Oye hermosa.”

“Sombra.”

She cracks an eye open and sees Widow uncrossing her arms, face still blank. It’s a sign that she’s secretly pleased. Sombra laughs and relents. “All right, buzzkill. I’m working on something, and I need special windows installed.”

Widow looks interested now. “What do you mean by special?”

Sombra eyes the windows of her new house. “Like, can I have custom shapes done? Is that a thing?” 

Now, Widow squints at her. Asks like she knows the answer already: “Do you mean geometric windows?”

“No,” says Sombra. She watches as a blonde lady pushes a pram down the sidewalk outside. “I was thinking more… round.”

Widow recrosses her arms. 

“Like 3 circles. But one of them is… longer. Girthier, you could say.”

“Sombra. What are you doing?”

“You’re such a good interrogator, baby. Have I ever told you that?” Widow’s stoic expression remains as is. Sombra flips the camera to show Widow the suburb she’s in. “Okay, fine. I’m getting Gabe a birthday present.”

“He has a house already. It’s very nice.” 

Sombra rolls her eyes. “It’s not for him to live in. You know his ex? That blond guy?”

Widow begins to smile in that way she does when she’s being mean. Sombra thinks she should tell Widow she loves her soon. “Yes.”

“He lives near here. He’s part of the Homeowners Association," Sombra begins. She gets a notification about the job she’s supposed to be doing here and gives it a baleful look when it covers a bit of Widow’s face. She swipes it away. “So I was thinking clashing colours for different penis windows, and if I can figure it out, I also wanna do out of season decorations for every holiday.”

“Switch the camera,” Widow demands. “I want to see you—what are you wearing?”

* * *

“Have you killed before?” Widow asks her, curled up against Sombra’s back. 

Sombra pauses the video she was watching and peeks over her shoulder. “You say the sweetest things to me when we’re alone together.”

Widow huffs and lets go of her, turning on her back. 

Laughing, Sombra minimizes her screen and rolls over, so she’s half on top of her girlfriend. “Yeah. I go for stealth mostly, but sometimes that’s not an option.”

Without thinking, Widow puts her arm back around Sombra’s waist. She looks down at Sombra, impassive. “Do you like it?”

Sombra hums in thought, resting her cheek on Widow’s boob, and after a second, says, “I don’t feel bad about it. Neutral.” She pats Widow’s stomach. “What about you?”

“I like it,” she says without stopping to think. 

Sombra expected as much. Widow would sometimes talk about her work. The undercover operations, the sitting and waiting, but mainly about the quality of her kills. The artfulness. 

She props her chin up and looks at Widow. She has a feeling Widow wants to be able to see her expressions. 

Widow searches her face for something. Sombra’s not sure what, and she’s not sure if Widow finds it. 

When it becomes clear Widow isn’t going to say anything, Sombra wiggles fully onto her. Widow remains unmoved, maintaining eye contact. “You can help me with my aim some time. Maybe you could have a shooting range built.”

“Okay,” she says, and then she makes the next move, following up with: “Do you want to move in with me?”

Sombra rears back in surprise. Then, gets in Widow’s face to make sure she’s serious—she’s always serious. Widow gets a bit cross-eyed, so Sombra backs up a bit. “Yeah,” she says. “Okay.”

* * *

Sunlight comes through the skylight. The fluffy behemoth of a cloud that had been blocking it had passed. Sombra let out an annoyed breath of air and puts her holovid down, unable to see anything on the screen with the glare. 

She brings her feet off the table and reaches for her warm Corona. Disgusting. After one sip, she sets it back down. 

There’s a crunching sound. Beside her, Widow fishes out a fresh beer from the icebox at the foot of her chair and places it on the table in front of Sombra. She doesn’t look up from her book once. 

Sombra feels that irritating flutter in her stomach and is compelled to lean over and kiss Widow on the cheek. 

Widow immediately turns her head and deepens the kiss, licking into Sombra’s mouth. 

Sombra lets it go on for a minute or two before pulling back and cracking the beer open on the table. 

Widow gives her a stern look. 

“Oops,” she says and gulps down a cold mouthful. Much better. 

“You will pay for a new one if that’s chipped.”

Sombra reaches over and pulls Widow’s sunglasses down over her eyes to partially hide the glower. She ends up just cupping Widow’s cheek, and it has Widow softening up, leaning into her hand. 

Sombra smiles. “I love you.”

Widow’s eyes are hidden behind her shades, but she can’t possibly be staring at anything other than Sombra. Sombra lets her look. Finally, Widow puts her book down, grabs the front of Sombra’s Hawaiian shirt, and kisses her again. Sombra doesn’t pull away for a good long while.

**Author's Note:**

> sometimes love is just 2 dented ppl awkwardly fumbling their way through a relationship.... anyway i literally just wanted to write "window maker" I've been itching to say that for AGES u guys don't know. also i did not edit this, i wrote this in one day, feel free to leave constructive criticism. (22/3) so i did edit this a bit, constructive criticism still welcome also my tumblr is @chlodines 
> 
> Sombra: lets be assholes together babe<3  
> Widow, measuring sombras ring finger: say less
> 
> Dva: ugh I cant stand u hackers!!  
> Sombra, lying: u kno that’s not the kind of hacking I do right


End file.
